


Lounge Against the Dominion, or, Defective Vorta: free to a good home

by craigslist_ouija_board



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amateur Hour, Blood and Injury, Episode: s07e06 Treachery Faith and the Great River, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Weyoun lives, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26717767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craigslist_ouija_board/pseuds/craigslist_ouija_board
Summary: Weyoun escapes to DS9 with the help of a holographic lounge singer.
Comments: 23
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Caveat: I cannot stress enough how much of a novice I am at writing... apologies in advance...

Weyoun leaned heavily against the control panel of the Cardassian runabout with blood-slicked, trembling hands and allowed himself a shuddering sigh of relief. His escape could hardly have gone worse, but he had finally made it out of Dominion territory.

Despite his slender build and lack of experience in physical altercation, he had somehow managed to incapacitate a lone Jem’Hadar guard with a stolen knife in a brief but painful skirmish, though his adversary had managed to leave him with an impressive bruise across his neck and an angry gash trailing from his hairline. The dogged guard fired a disruptor blast into Weyoun’s side just as the runabout hatch closed between them. The adrenaline that fueled his messy exodus was wearing off, and it took all of his willpower to keep the dark edges from folding in on his already weak vision.

With an hour ETA to DS9, Weyoun reconfirmed that the vessel’s cloaking devices were online and set about attempting a specified sub-channel SOS signal. He couldn’t risk a general distress call—as soon as the Cardassians realized he had fled they would be combing the skies for him, and wouldn’t think twice about crossing into Federation territory to retrieve him. He knew too much to be allowed to slip into enemy hands. But that was exactly where he was determined to flee. Specifically, to Odo. The one changeling he hadn’t failed yet.

His Founders deemed him defective and no longer useful after he dared to question the morality of the Dominion. Unfortunately just as hardheaded and resolute as his predecessors, he hadn’t yielded to the Founder’s verbal or physical measures to reeducate him. He shuddered. His own gods had marked him unworthy. Now every fiber in his battered being wished only to serve Odo, and by proxy, the Federation his previous clones had callously plotted against. At least for whatever time he had left, a sharp stab from the ragged wound below his ribs reminded him. 

Once Weyoun was near enough to the DS9 space station, he carefully scanned all sub-channel comms activity until he honed in on an unusual signal and hailed it. The heads up display blinked to life and a silver haired human appeared in the monitor. The man’s dress and demeanor were unusual—he wore an Earth tuxedo and bowtie, and was seated in the hazy neon and amber interior of a dimly lit lounge. A trail of smoke curled lazily in the air as he extinguished a cigarette into a crystal ashtray to his left next to a small vase of two long stemmed roses. The man leaned into the screen with animated interest.

“Vic Fontaine here--” He straightened up from his languid stance, and his friendly, relaxed countenance darkened with concern. “Whoa, kid, you all right? You look like you’re in a real jam, how can I help?” Vic’s voice was low and soothing, how Weyoun imagined a father might sound. Even in Vic’s makeshift cathode ray comms screen Weyoun appeared ghostly pale, his unsettlingly violet gaze feverishly urgent. Tremors of pain wracked his slight frame.

Weyoun gave a small, gracious nod, “Weyoun speaking, vector coordinates—“ he squinted at the control panel, “8503.90, 5746.1, 0038. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fontaine—are you hailing from DS9? My apologies, but you don’t look or sound like a Starfleet officer.”

“Right you are, I’m just a humble holographic club singer here on ye olde Delta Sierra 9. I’ve recently taken up dabbling in ham radio in my down time. Picked up some fluky interference so I thought I’d pop over to see what was buzzin.”

Was the man barely intelligible, Weyoun wondered, or was it just the blood loss?

“A singer? How delightful, I’ve always wished the gods had imparted me that gift…” he mused faintly. “I’m sorry, did you say you’re a hologram? How--” Weyoun shook his head, “Never mind, would you be able to patch me in to Security Officer Odo? I’m afraid I haven’t much time. I need to speak to him.” A jolt of pain tore through his side and he gasped. 

“Odo, huh? We have a mutual buddy, then!” Vic winked. Weyoun frowned, “Neither he nor any Starfleet will be pleased to hear from me or perhaps even believe I’ve defected, but I’m as good as dead on Cardassia. The Dominion and I have developed,” he winced, “irreconcilable differences. Odo may do with me as he sees fit, I wish only to serve him.”

Vic studied Weyoun sympathetically. “Hey, no sweat, kid, I’ll see what I can do. That old polar bear owes me a favor, anyway.” A god, owing a favor to a hologram? He felt dizzy.

“You hang in there, fella, cavalry will be on the way in two shakes. And kid,” Vic leaned forward, almost as if he wanted to lay a hand on the Vorta's shoulder, “You look more lost and lonely than any bar fly I’ve seen in all my years in the circuit. How about a little on-hold music to keep you company in the meantime.” Weyoun thanked the strange hologram and Vic Fontaine’s kindly image disappeared abruptly. Weyoun was once again alone in the small aircraft.

A moment later, the warm static sound of dusty vinyl crackled through the speakers and the first lilting piano notes of Billie Holiday’s “I’ll Be Seeing You” filled the cabin. Weyoun closed his eyes, and the achingly wistful voice of worn velvet and golden light dancing through leaves cradled him into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, how does one dialogue...

The doors to the female Founder’s office swung shut behind Weyoun with an ominous thud.

“Remove your uniform,” she commanded evenly. Weyoun bowed his head, slipped off his uniform jacket and shirt and set them in a neat pile at the foot of an impassive Jem’Hadar standing guard at the door.

“Founder, I—“ “I did not ask you to speak!” she hissed. Weyoun did his best not to flinch away as she seized him by his upturned wrists with one gelatinous arm in a swift fluid motion and yanked his arms over his head. She surveyed him coldly, watching his chest rise and fall rapidly and he swallowed hard, eyes downcast. Her other arm tapered into a long shimmering tendril. She trailed it slowly across the his jaw, lingering on the heat of his galloping pulse before tilting his chin up. He focused somewhere above her shoulder, not daring to look his wrathful god in the eye.

“You may be my favorite solid, Weyoun, but don’t think for a moment your flagrant defiance of my orders will go unpunished. Your one purpose is to serve me. If you cannot do that you are faulty, worthless, and will be replaced with a more worthy Vorta. Are you worthless, pet?’

Her words stung him more than the appendage she sharpened into a gleaming point and dug emphatically into his sternum. He clenched his jaw. Showing weakness now would only provoke more fury.

“That is for you to determine, Founder,” he breathed.

“Do not test me with insolence!” she snapped, reeled back, and whipped the razored extension of her arm across Weyoun’s chest. He yelped. Blood welled from the deep, livid cut that curved from his collarbone down across his chest. He sucked in a breath through his bared teeth and inwardly chastised himself for crying out.

“Look at me!”

Bright violet eyes locked dutifully on hers with an expression of fear and awe. 

“I d-didn’t mean—“

“Yes, I think you are still useful—as an example to others of how disobedience is rewarded.”

The changeling twisted him around, pinning him against the bulkhead by his immobilized wrists. She brought the whip blade down hard over his exposed back and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep silent. He tasted blood. She lashed out again and Weyoun bucked under her with a groan. Another razored whip tore across his shoulders and he cried out. Yet another vicious strike and his legs buckled under him. She finally stopped when she noticed that he was hanging limp in her grasp. She released him unceremoniously, recomposing herself to usual humanoid form, and the barely conscious Vorta slid to the ground in a bloody heap.

“Look at you, solid. You’re too frail to even pay the amount of penance you deserve. Take him to his quarters,” She addressed the Jem’Hadar. He nodded curtly and lifted Weyoun’s body easily over one shoulder.

\--

At the behest of Vic Fontaine, Weyoun had been transported directly into the infirmary. He materialized hunched forward on his knees, clutching his bleeding side with trembling hands. “Doctor Bashir! So sorry to drop in like this…” he slurred as Bashir rushed to his side with the tricorder, and promptly slumped against the doctor, unconscious.

Odo paced around the infirmary with his arms folded across his chest, looking more inscrutable than usual. Bashir hunched over Weyoun, running the tricorder over his exposed torso and the disruptor wound in his side, quickly trying to assess all biological anomalies. Fortunately, it appeared Vorta physiology was basically identical to human. Weyoun’s body was metabolizing the general anesthetic a little faster than Julian expected, but he was able to close up the wound and knit together two broken ribs with little trouble.

The sight of an ashen, inert Weyoun was unsettling; he should be sauntering around with a haughty glint in his eye, accompanied by a menacing entourage of Jem’Hadar. But what truly disturbed Julian was the all of the older, partially healed damage Weyoun’s small, slender frame displayed. He wouldn’t have assumed the role of diplomat would invite risk for much physical injury, aside from the occasional assassination attempt. But Weyoun’s chest bore a few raw, recent looking scars— long knife-like incisions, unmistakably intentional.

Bashir ventured to gently turn Weyoun onto his uninjured side. The young doctor grimaced. Odo appeared over his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” Several long, angry scars, some faint, some recent and livid, snaked across the sharp planes of the Vorta’s shoulder blades and down his back.

“This is the female changeling’s work.” Odo growled. “My people continue to find appalling new ways to surprise me,” Julian continued bio-scanning Weyoun for any more subtle signs of injury. The tricorder gave a warning chirp and populated with information as Bashir passed it across Weyoun’s neck.

“My god,” he breathed, dismayed. “There’s some kind of synthetic implant… here near the temporal bone, a termination chip,” he pointed behind Weyoun’s jaw under the curve of his ear. “It’s programmed to shut down the circulatory system when triggered. Certainly wouldn’t be a merciful or painless way to die. Fortunately it looks as though it can be removed with no risk of neural damage. I’ll take it out immediately.”

Damar had Weyoun pinned by the neck to the bulkhead and he struggled fruitlessly in the stronger man’s grasp. The Cardassian’s leering face swirled before his eyes into an abstract greyish blur. Damar purred in his ear that he was going to arrange another ‘transporter accident’ only this time he’d kill him slowly. A deep resentment rose in Weyoun’s chest and tightened his aching throat. Weyoun wasn’t built for this; he hated the Founders for making him physically weak and helpless. He hated himself even more for his sacrilege. Damar gasped in shocked revulsion, suddenly dropping the Vorta and recoiling from him. 

Weyoun looked down at himself to see a gaping, bloody hole in his chest, a fathomless chasm of dripping, cold nothingness cradled in the jagged, broken teeth of luminous white ribs. He watched in fascinated horror as a river of blood poured from it onto the floor. The room melted away and he found himself kneeling in the Great Link, his own life’s blood swirling into it in inky billows. He mused in puzzled disgust that he found the palette of deep arterial crimson and shimmering gold mingling together to be aesthetically pleasing.

Weyoun woke with a shuddering gasp.


	3. Chapter 3

“Weyoun,” he heard Bashir’s voice and felt a warm hand on his shoulder easing him back into the infirmary bed. The doctor’s concerned face slid into focus. 

“How do you feel?”

“Alive,” he rasped. “I take it I made it to DS9.”

“By a thread, yes. You lost a good deal of blood but you’re stable now. Your left vertebrochondral ribs are still healing, I would recommend refraining from any strenuous activity for the next few weeks.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

The room slowly swam into focus and Weyoun could just make out Odo’s brooding form a short distance over Bashir’s shoulder. His heart skipped.

“Odo,” Weyoun tried to sit up but regretted it immediately. He let out a soft hiss of pain and steadied his voice, “Thank you for allowing me here— you were under no obligation to respond to my distress call. I’m deeply grateful you did.”

“Actually,” Julian interjected, “Vic made the wise decision to contact me first since he deemed it foremost a medical emergency—your transport was cleared with Commander Sisko and Odo after the fact.”

Odo gave a curt nod. “Vic explained your situation… he may be a hologram but he’s an eerily astute judge of character.” He gave Weyoun a sharp look and added, “And it’s evident you weren’t exaggerating your predicament. As far as the Dominion knows, you died in transit, but in addition to the usual station screening protocols, two of my security personnel will be posted outside the infirmary as a precaution.”

A wave of adulation for Odo overwhelmed Weyoun. A Founder, particularly one who had ample reason to hate him, had gone out of his way to protect him, actually regarded him as if he weren’t an expendable commodity. He drew in a shaky, painful breath in an attempt to compose himself.

He opened his mouth, for once at a loss for words, but Odo continued, “Commander Sisko would like to debrief you as soon as you’ve regained your strength.” Weyoun stiffened. “O-of course,” He unconsciously raised a protective hand to his side and flinched at the sudden contact of Bashir’s hand on his arm.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” Julian reassured him. “I would strongly advise that you also speak to our counselor Ezri, but if you are in any physical discomfort please don’t hesitate to come to me. I’m here to help.”

“I live to serve,” Weyoun looked up at the doctor gratefully. “I’m eager to assist in any way I can. Perhaps if you could use an extra hand in security detail--” He locked eyes hopefully with Odo.

Odo said as gently as he knew how, “I don’t think it would look appropriate to put a defected Dominion agent on security duty… right away,” he hesitated—those disarmingly large, expressive Vorta eyes gazing up at him looked crestfallen. Odo sighed. “Take a couple weeks to recuperate and then I’ll find you something to do.”

Weyoun perked up immediately. “Thank you, Odo,” he bowed his head, “It will be an honor to serv—to work with you.”

Weyoun felt utterly foolish for half anticipating a debriefing involving restraints, bright lights, or phaser stuns as he sat comfortably behind Sisko’s desk, watching the commander thoughtfully twirling a baseball in his hand.

The information he provided Benjamin Sisko regarding Dominion military agenda proved to be incredibly valuable. The Captain’s barely restrained elation at the intelligence offered put Weyoun at ease. Regardless of any other changes in the psychology of Weyoun 6, being useful still made him feel whole.

Sisko observed that this Weyoun held himself differently than the other clones he had met—he was still just as tactful and professional, but there was no trace of the fabricated charisma that defined his predecessors. In absence of cunning and duplicitousness there was only an almost naïve transparency.

However, Weyoun was less forthcoming about anything regarding his close subordinate relationship with the female Founder. At her mention, the Vorta began nervously tracing a finger along the scar behind his ear where his termination implant used to be. Benjamin had a fleeting, paternal urge to swat his hand away. Weyoun swept the topic into matters of the Dominion’s newest bioengineering experiments, projected timelines on launches, coordinates of laboratory headquarters on Cardassia. He solemnly concluded,

“The Founders are capable of such brutality, such complete, thorough… subjugation. It shouldn’t have taken a faulty cloning cycle to open my eyes to the horror I was abetting.” Wide lavender eyes met Sisko’s steady gaze.

He added, “I will do whatever I can to aid the Federation. I’m grateful to be here, commander, but there is a small part of me that cannot shake the belief that the Founders are my gods and I’ve profoundly failed them… that I should have terminated myself when the first impure suggestion of skepticism entered my mind.”

Weyoun stopped suddenly and gaped at Sisko, mortified. What on Kurill Prime compelled him to confide something so personal to the Commander?

Mercifully, Sisko seemed unfazed, as if he were used to hearing intimately personal declarations. He was the Emissary, after all.

“You made the right decision in coming here, Weyoun. Throwing your life away wouldn’t have benefited your people or any of the countless lives you’ve saved by providing us with intelligence that can help us put an end to this war.”

After the debriefing, a nagging paranoia set in as he walked through an empty level of the habitat ring. It didn’t seem far-fetched to imagine a Founder could slip into DS9 unnoticed and descend on him in a wrathful vengeance surpassing any violence he had ever suffered at their hands. He saw the female Founder out of the corner of his eye down every dim corridor, face contorted in blind fury, razor sharp appendages gleaming. Odo’s steady presence should have placated him, but it didn’t.

In that moment Weyoun desperately wanted to throw his arms around Odo’s waist until the fear passed, but instead he halted abruptly and leaned against the wall, trying to will himself to stop trembling.

Odo turned around and peered down at Weyoun’s pale, haunted countenance. “Are you alright?” The look of concern on Odo’s face made Weyoun’s ears burn with embarrassment for appearing so childish and vulnerable in front of him. He straightened up. 

“I’m sorry, perfectly fine,” he flashed a brittle smile. “Just needed to catch my breath.”

They arrived at Weyoun’s new quarters—just a few doors down the hall from Odo’s own, the changeling remarked gruffly. The steady hum of the station and the stark Cardassian architecture were familiar enough from his previous clone’s tenure on the station. Yet something felt uncanny, as if before he’d been blindfolded and given a dry, impartial description of the environment and this time he could observe for himself, unobstructed.

Until now he’d never really acknowledged the clean lines of the bulkhead, the round windows opening up like mouths into star-specked depths of space. Or how the dark grey palette made the room feel like a blank slate, impartial and void of expectation. Almost, he ventured, rather welcoming. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: it's all senseless whump?  
> Astronaut with gun: always has been.

Weyoun perched at an empty barstool at Quark’s. He was engineered to be a social creature after all, and there was nothing more comforting to his ears than the warm ambience of lighthearted banter mingling with the clatter of the dabo wheel. He just wished his weak eyes could distinguish a distant inquisitive glance in his direction from a hostile one.

“Welcome back, Weyoun,” Quark sauntered over with an easy smile.

“It’s good to see you, Quark,” Weyoun replied amiably. Quark knew Weyoun meant it genuinely from the way a cautious smile flickered in his eyes. The Vorta’s bright amethyst eyes, to the bartender’s shrewd perception, also betrayed a profound, deflated weariness that conjured in Quark’s mind the image of a de-fanged snake. Even on a cursory impression, it was easy to believe this wasn’t the same Vorta who almost had Rom executed. Quark didn’t think he would mind the new Weyoun at all. 

“You’re just in time for happy hour, what’ll you have?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any cyanide?” Weyoun leaned in with a conspiratorial smirk. Quark stifled a loud bark of laughter.

“Vorta humor, huh? Cheeky. Afraid your last clone cleaned me out … how about the next best thing: an Andorian sunset?” Weyoun nodded.

“Ah, Quark—any vacancies in the holosuites tonight? I’d like to pay someone a visit.”

The lounge looked just as welcoming as it had in the monitor of the runabout—sort of faded with a hazy film around the edges—a relic from a distant world, suspended in amber. Vic strode toward him with a bright smile and an extended hand. “Weyoun! Welcome, pally, glad you made it in one piece.”

“Mr. Fontaine, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” Weyoun grinned a little self-consciously and shook Vic’s proffered hand.

“I can’t thank you deeply enough, if it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be standing here. I owe you my life.”

Vic chuckled drily. “Don’t give it another thought, friend, that one’s on the house. And so's this one,” with that he ushered Weyoun over to the bar with a wave and poured two generous tumblers of scotch.

“To new beginnings and new friends,” Vic nodded at Weyoun and raised his glass.

Suddenly remembering he was in a holo-program toasting a complex sequence of ones and zeros made Weyoun feel horribly indulgent. Somewhere, a few light years away, Cardassians and Jem’Hadar were dying because of him. Federation troops were still dying in spite of him. And his unfortunate successor was probably lying broken and bloody at the feet of the enraged female Founder, paying the severe penance Weyoun 6 knew he deserved for his treachery. He swallowed hard, his breath caught in his throat.

Not wanting to appear rude to his host, Weyoun managed to whisper, “new beginnings,” and knocked back the faintly smoky liquid in one gulp, planting the glass back on the bar with a somber thud.

“Whoa-ho! Now you’re on the trolley!” Vic raised an eyebrow, studying Weyoun’s ashen features. “You drink like a fella who’s seen too much.”

“Several lifetimes, yes,” Weyoun assented with an apologetic smile. “I carry all the memories of my five predecessors—not that any of them lived a full lifetime. Anyway, it takes a great deal of alcohol for a Vorta to feel any effects.”

Vic poured another generous measure of whisky into Weyoun’s empty glass, but the Vorta stood and bowed his head.

“Thank you for your generosity, Vic —I really should be going, I don’t want to impose on your time.”

“Where’s the fire, Charlie? I’ve got downtime in spades, and it wouldn’t hurt you to take a load off. Besides, Sisko informed me your schedule is clear for the next week while you get back on your feet.”

Weyoun wondered what else Sisko told him. He felt exposed under Vic’s concerned gaze.

“Mind letting me in on what’s eating you, pally? I’d like to help.”

* some uplifting dialogue happens here; possible future edit

That night a sudden noise in the darkness of his quarters roused Weyoun from a heavy, dreamless sleep. It was the faintest shimmering sound-- suspiciously like a transporter beam-- but that was all it took for his sharply attuned ears to pick up. Someone was leaning over him in the dark. A half-lucid panic gripped him.

“Founder,” he uttered.

“You wish, Vorta,” the figure then pressed a phaser into Weyoun’s chest. A sharp burst of pain threw him back into unconsciousness.

Weyoun jerked awake to a grating sensation of cold metal against his temples. His chest felt raw and bruised. It took moments to realize he was bound to a chair in his own quarters, his wrists tied tightly behind his back. A lean, ascetic man in a uniform he didn’t recognize was adjusting something around Weyoun’s head. He wasn’t certain but he guessed it was a Romulan mind probe, a brutal device supposedly banned by the Federation. 

“Who are you? Computer! Odo--” Weyoun twisted frantically against his restraints.

“Your comms system has been disabled.” The man interrupted. He leaned forward and deep shadows slid dramatically down his angular features. “I work for Section 31. The Federation has been waiting to get their hands on you.”

“What do you want?”

“Information. Assurance.”

Weyoun let out one mirthless bark of laughter. “Physical coercion will get you nothing. Do you really think Dominion conditioning would leave me that malleable? Besides, I already told Commander Sisko everything that could possibly be of any import.”

“That’s not enough. Commander Sisko’s debriefing couldn’t possibly have been as illuminating as the results of the mind probe will be. You’re still a well of untapped Dominion intelligence—it would be foolish—irresponsible, even—to let this opportunity go to waste.”

“I thought the Federation was too sanctimonious to stoop to skulking around under cover of darkness, conducting illicit, unnecessary interrogations.”

Though glaring up at his captor resolutely, the former emissary looked nowhere near as intimidating as expected from his reputation. The neckline of Weyoun’s oversized nightshirt threatened to slip off one shoulder, an unruly lock of hair jutted up behind one ear. He looked small, frail, and haggard. 

“Sisko was too trusting, allowing you to hide out here without due process, licking your wounds. You’ve been a thorn in our side and you don’t deserve his ill-placed magnanimity. All of your kind are devious little jackals. The Federation needs to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ll pose no threat to us.”

“And there’s no chance you’ll believe I’ve truly defected unless you scan me.” Weyoun said flatly.

“Correct. This will be over soon, just stay awake.”

The agent entered a few calibrations on his tricorder and the nodes on Weyoun’s forehead hummed to life. He cried out and his body arched against the chair. Everything he had ever known in the universe condensed into a searing hot pinpoint of indescribable pain behind his eyes, coursing down his spine. He couldn’t even scream. Just as he felt curiously as if he were about to slip out of his body, the agent pressed the phaser to his still damaged ribs and jolted him back with a dull stab of electricity. It felt like dozens of thin, hot daggers plunging into his side. Every breath was excruciating.

“Stay awake,” the agent’s voice warned from somewhere far away. Weyoun could only manage a shallow gasp of acknowledgment.

In the habitat ring below, Quark awoke with a groan to what he interpreted as the deafening impact of a body crashing to the floor, followed by ominous scuffling. He rolled his eyes and barked at the comms system, “Computer, Odo!”

Odo’s gruff voice answered back grudgingly, “This couldn’t wait until business hours, Quark?”

“It sounds like your new tenant is reenacting the battle of Qam-Chee up there, and it’s disturbing my beauty rest.”

“Are you sure it’s coming from Weyoun’s quarters? He’s still recovering from his injuries, I wouldn’t exactly expect him to tango—especially not at this hour.”

“I’m absolutely sure.”

Odo sighed. “I’ll investigate. And Quark…” Odo rubbed the bridge of his nose. “If you ever need anything at this ungodly hour again— consider bothering someone else.”

An unwelcome wave of dread swept over Odo when he found the lock to Weyoun’s quarters was jammed somehow. “Computer, override lock, authorization Odo 6-4-2 green.” Odo charged in to find the irksome Section 31 agent looming over a restrained Weyoun.

“This is Section 31 business. Move and I kill him,” The agent drawled without looking away from his tricorder, unaffected by his subject whimpering and bucking against his restraints with a feral desperation. “I’ll be finished with the Vorta in just a moment.”

“I don’t care who you’re working for, you’re trespassing on my space station and assaulting a passenger with a contraband weapon. Turn it off and step away from him,” Odo growled.

The agent noticed Weyoun slump back in the chair and he stunned him back to life with another prod. Weyoun yelped and his eyes flew open, dazed and unfocused. His pale features were drawn with pain.

Odo barked, “I said turn off that torture device, _now_.”

“Why is the Vorta of any concern to you, changeling? Do you realize how vital this interrogation is to the Federation?”

“It is my duty to protect everyone on this space station,” Odo bristled. “He was conditioned to serve the Founders and he broke free from his conditioning. He deserves a second chance.”

“There.”

“What?” Odo snapped.

The agent glanced down at the tricorder and shut off the mind probe. “Processing complete.”

Weyoun’s head fell back and he sagged lifelessly against the chair. The agent gestured with a memory rod he removed from the tricorder, “I have everything I need, the war criminal is back in your custody. Thank you for your cooperation,” he sneered before disappearing into a transport beam.

Odo rushed to Weyoun’s side and untied him hastily.

“Weyoun?”

The shallow rattle of Weyoun’s breathing hitched in recognition. His eyes opened and focused sluggishly on Odo’s face. The look of adoration that flickered through them sent a ripple of protective guilt through the changeling. Odo growled a curse under his breath and tapped his comm badge. “Emergency! Two to beam to infirmary.”

Moments later, Bashir was running a tricorder over Weyoun’s inert body as Odo relayed what happened.

Julian spared a sympathetic glance up at Odo before returning his focus to the bioscan, “It’s not your fault, Odo— Section 31 has a penchant for thwarting security. Let’s just be grateful they left Weyoun alive.”

Odo didn’t look any less grim.

“Neurologically he appears to be fine apart for some spikes of high activity in the epithalamus region. But his blood pressure is low and two ribs are broken—he’s fortunate he didn’t puncture a lung.”

Julian jumped back with a start. Weyoun’s throat was glowing—a soft, silvery-blue subdermal sheen emanating from his the hollow of his clavicular notch and upward. The glow increased in intensity until it threw an ethereal pallor over Bashir’s captivated face.

“Odo, look at—“ Weyoun’s back suddenly arched off the infirmary bed and the light burst from his throat in a blindingly brilliant orb. It shot up into the cabin and dissipated with a flash, sending Julian staggering back several feet. Odo steadied the doctor, gaping at the once again motionless Vorta.

Julian laughed, “Did Weyoun ever mention anything to you about telekinetic abilities?”


End file.
